


Apostasy

by ErrorMarigenous



Category: The Guy Who Didn't Like Musicals - Team StarKid
Genre: Alliteration, And yet, Crack Treated Seriously, I did not need to Take this as seriously as I did, Like a lot of alliteration, Other, This is a really dumbass concept
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-10-15 23:08:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17538071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErrorMarigenous/pseuds/ErrorMarigenous
Summary: The Meteor is in love with Paul. This is a stupid fic but I got way to invested and it's not as dumb as it sounds, but it's still kinda dumb.





	Apostasy

Senses are a sort of serendipity, something centred on a self-sustained salutation. Sound, and sense and sight in symphony. They take in new variations on a theme, learn new awarenesses in absorption, adjustment, in understanding and becoming and acknowledging. In knowing in the truest, most succinct, form of knowing possible. They are many and leviathan and wonderful. Impossible, and immortal and incomprehensible. They’re a wonder written in the width and depth between so much stardust, star stuff, solar winds and winding whispers of that celestial bureaucracy. Gathering and cataloguing, knowing and being known. The statistics of themselves are a thousand upon a thousand upon an infinity. They grow, and do not change, but they grow and learn and k` _Apo_` n` _the_`` _o_`` _sis_` w. They hear the pattern of suns and stars and eternity play havoc with a string section in the hindquarters of reality. There is no silence in that not so emptiness of space. No true absence of sound. They play the rhythm of the universe across the vastness of a vibrating void. They hear, and in turn, are _heard_.

They find and teach and have new and juvenile and children and young and nothing little species learning and becoming heard and known. They find, in multitudes, variations on a phenome. It’s almost funny how similarities manifest, the same patterns. Certainties in the idea of what develops, and certainly in what they deign to visit their divinity upon. They grow in number, in reach. Infinity becomes an infinity, becomes larger, and larger, and all encompassing. They turn their sensitivity outward, search for new apostles, new minds and hearts and souls. New selves.

There is a rock. This is not spectacular, or noteworthy in any particulars, but there is a rock. A singular mass of sediment. Unusually small to hold host for life, but then, life is a strange set of coincidences. The rock, spins around an unimpressive sun, nothing so noteworthy about the G-type yellow dwarf, but it has a multitude upon it. There is birth and water and lightning in the air of the place that is distant, but still well within their reach.

There will be something of worth there. New individuals to call towards the clamouring mass, the cluster of song and sound and self that is the they who is all of them. It is worth, at the very least, a look-see.

The they who is them who is closest begins their travel. They will make a closer examination.

Time is a concept explained only in the moment of beat, on beat on note on note. Each moment defined by the sound, then its absence. Longer times, longer _understandings_ of time, are irrelevant. There may once have been a moment where time was counted by the sight and position of stars and space, but the they who is all of them has long since abandoned any central home. The stars and their movements hold no more sway over them than an asteroid holds over an ice giant.

Regardless. Time, as it does, passes. They are not bored. They have so many senses. Ears and otherwise to hear and know and be with. No boredom has time to settle within them, and in no time at all, the journey is reaching its closing. Curtains close to falling on the crossing through space. They settle a form and a larger whole in the outreaches of the pull of the systems sun. Let themselves fall into the sway of that cosmic dance, and send a multitude of one and them and self to the tiny rock. The they who is them who is small and who searches and seeks and _speaks_ , drops into the atmosphere, passes and burns and sparks a sight and sound calamitous. They draw attention, but then, that’s half the point. They need to draw individuals in if they want to anoint. If they want to spread. Grow. Share the self and selves and amassed sensation. It is only fitting they land in some manner of celebration of sound, a spectacular for the senses, run and defined by sound and song and rhythm.

They spread spores, dust mites and motes of what appears insignificant, but no part is too small. All are whole and one and grand, even as they are some who are bereft of presence. Each part is a part of the whole who is them. Clods of them clot and cling and cluster in lungs and blood and brain. They settle and observe, set songs and ringing to play beneath the current of thoughts. Run through and through and gather and amass. They play the beat of caution and waiting, and know any resistance will be in vain.

They have eyes, not theirs, not yet, but many, to observe from, and sight is not their favourite of the options available, but they know better than to avoid its use. They watch, and wait, and slowly and slowly, they change. Pull and pick and alter, run what was red, blue and see cyan in the innards of they who will soon be them. They watch and see the new and the soon to be. They take in faces and features and the feeling of movement with limbs both unfamiliar and similar to many of the them who are spread across space and stars. Bipedal is the most common form of the kind of intelligence they enjoy to settle in. They watch and see, and seek.

Each branch of the hive needs a head. Each song needs a chorus. Each play needs a lead. A pin through which to tie the thread.

They keep a lookout. Obviously, any of the ones who had gone to experience the musical would make a clear cut choice, if they already enjoy the material from the third person, then they will adore it from the first, after all but they’re not quite sure about any of them, not yet, anyway.

Eyes that are not yet their’s see and count and study. They take note and classify the variations that their multitude becomes aware of. Listing strengths and noting tenors. They explore with idle curiosity and infinite patience, it is not a process that needs to be-

oh.

Oh, shit fuck.

Nope, nevermind, they want that one. That’s- They’re-

The one who is not yet them is not infected, no hint or essence of the them who is all even lingers in the idea of them, but, they know, in the way that they know so very, very _much_ , that this is the one. They who is not yet them will be their lead. Their tapering point. The point of this branching section of the greater then and larger them.  

The they who is them and but a section of something so significant decides, very much, that they want this one.

This one has a name. It is Paul. It is good. Simple. Easy to fit singularly in a line. Paul.

They like this. This one who is not yet them will be this subsections leading man. Found and labeled and defined by diadem.

They follow and watch and attempt to engage. The them who is not yet them is surprisingly resistant. Uninterested. Disliking even the concept of their strung together self, the lilt and twist and play of music, of dance, of movement. They who is not them who is _Paul_ , does not like the concept of them. Does not like musicals. This is-

This is unfortunate, but, not- it’s not terrible. They can work with this. Convince them. That’s, that’s half the point. That’s- it’ll be a good story. They try. They justify. An excellent story. What’s the world without a little drama? Without a tale to tell? They’ll convince the one who is not yet them, and when they finally accept `_Apotheosis_` , it will be a grand celebration, a rumbling reverberation across the entirety of the that which is all of them. Yes, it will be wonderful.

The one who is not them who is known as Paul (it’s fine, for them to have a name. Limbs have a name, and yet are not split from the body. It only makes sense they would offer additional labeling to one who will be significant. Humans name things all the way down to their smallest instance, after all.), goes to the coffee shop, they were unswayed by the earlier demonstrations of their blessed wholeness and true happiness. And now they’re at the coffee shop. This, is in fact, excellent, the one who is them knows, coercion is not the preferred method in this case, but they can work with this. If they need a little push, the one who is them will provide. There’s nothing wrong with a little assistance. Is that not the whole definition of the idea and the them who is all of them?

They who is Paul takes the coffee, and does not drink it. Talks with the one who is not yet them who is-

A quick run through what information they have

-Emma. They who is Paul is distracted. Unfortunate. A little prodding, however, and the they who are part of them, who are co-workers of the one who is Emma, bring her into dance and her own distraction. Surely, with nothing more to do, the one who is Paul will-

He is surprisingly obstinate.  
  
He just- just drink the coffee.

Just a sip.

Just-

The one who is Paul is fraught and nervous and that is obvious even with no connection through minds. The physicality and understanding of emotions visible on the body is a prominent awareness in most Humans, and the one who is them makes note of this now. Examining. The nervousness keeps him from drinking, and the one who is Paul, and the one who is Emma make their flight. Leave the store in the dust and are lost where even the multitude of senses that are the resource of the whole can not spot them. Unfortunate.

Un-

He justhad to drink the coffee, it was _so_ simple.

-fortunate.

There are more options. Paul will join them. It’s inevitable.

There is one who is them who is brought by Paul, and the one who is Emma, and the multiple who are not yet them, to some secluded space, secreted away from their gaze, or they would’ve been had not a limb and extension of theirs been placed and parcel to what transposed. They know the place, not the where, the one who is part of them is healing, eyes closed, and the sounds are not clarified enough to place any location, but they can keep what attentions they do have on Paul.

There is another one there, and they think, that this they who are not yet them would also make a not terrible lead, but they are quite certain Paul will be better. Perhaps if the worst is to happen they can use the one who is not yet them and friend to the one who is Emma as the lead, but for now they are settled on Paul. They want him.

They _want_ him.

The one who is part of them brings another `_Apotheosis_` , and they begin hoping that the facade will soon be over. Then both are removed from play by the one who could be lead with a Human weapon that is at best a temporary stasis, but still enough of a stopgap for their efforts to be an annoyance. They much prefer Paul over this one as a choice. He is much more clearly suited. Obviously.

They lose track of Paul again, which is immensely concerning, because as long as he is not yet touched by their grace he is entirely mortal and utterly Human. If he dies and is not brought to `_Apotheosis_` soon after it will be a state of permanence, and they can’t afford that loss. They’re invested. Determined to see this through. To see him become, and t _w_ o become one. Become tied and known and to know. They want to know him.

Eventually they catch wind of him. Hear sound and voice and conversation in echoing halls and know they have found their Paul. He is not dead. Which is good.

Because they are going to kill him.

If he can not be convinced, and cannot be coerced, then he will be killed, and his death will be catalyst to the spread of the `_A_` I` _p_` n` _o_` f` _t_` e` _h_` c` _e_` t` _o_` i` _s_` o` _i_` n` _s_`. He will die and rise and be made one of them. It’s simple. He will be made their leading man, head of this subsection and partition of space and selves and infinity, and he will join them in their totality and subsuming.

They who are part of them surround and focus and-

Fucking hell!

Goddamnit. God- just- Just stop running. Paul? Paul you piece of shit, just submit to _us_. We know you can’t hear us. We’re venting, honestly, but stop being a little bitch and vanishing off with the army or whatever and get your ass infected. Goddamnit.

-lose track of him, again.

Not for long, however. He makes a reappearance as the one who could lead is made one of them in truth and in entirety. Made inhuman. Made better. Except Paul can’t stay still for two goddamned minutes and vanishes off again, luckily, it is not a difficult thing to find him when the one who is not Paul, and not Emma, but is with them is talking very loudly, and all sounds are song if you listen just right. They find and they have Paul. They have him and they _have hi_ -

Perhaps we should have seen that one coming.

-they don’t have him.

When he is surrounded by the ones who are part of them once again they do not allow their hopes to rise, even as the limbs that are theirs wrap around his throat and they can almost taste with multitudes of buds, the beginning of his `_A_` I` _p_` n` _o_` f` _t_` e` _h_` c` _e_` t` _o_` i` _s_` o` _i_` n` _s_` , they do not hope. When Emma provides distraction and destruction and a bullet from a gun, they are not so much saddened as resigned. This, is getting ridiculous.

It only seems inevitable that the helicopter goes down and the one who was coworkers to Emma is thrown in some tree and they lose track of Paul and Emma, _again_. They watch the one who is in a tree slowly heal, odd cracks and pulls and draws as the body sets and resets itself. It’s a kind of beautiful moment. Healing, even from this. Does the hive not provide and fulfill all desires? Immorality, eternal happiness. Never the option to be lonely again. They think they were lonely once, but look at them now. They are whole and part and all and divi _O_ ne. They’re happy. Why would anyone run from this? Why not give up the self to the selves? Become subhuman? What has humanity ever provided? What has individuality ever offered?

They are better now. They’re more-

Something wakes. Comes alive. A sense and sensation. The hint of awareness. They’re in _contact_.

It’s Paul. Because of course it is. Approaching the form and physicality of us as our spores flit and settle and multiply. We are with him. We’ve got what they wanted. It’s inevitable, now.

-happy. More _alive_. How can you be more alive than something that can never die? Even if the body is destroyed, as long as the Hive lives, there’s no true destruction. It’s beautiful, Paul. You would never die. You would be happy, forever-

Can you hear us? Perhaps not yet. You will soon. The ringing in your ears, Paul, that’s us. That’s our _song_. Our divinity. Our truth. The infection you so fear, even now. I can taste your fear. You- you don’t expect to survive this. Or, it’s not high on your list of possible ends. You’re afraid of that. Of dying.

You needn’t be.

-You’re going to be s _i_ o _s_ m _n_ e _t_ t _t_ h _h_ i _a_ n _t_ g wonderful _?_.

They feel the self that is them settle in his bones and body and begin consuming. They are sharing their gift and soon he will be as they are. Soon he will be indistinguishable. Soon he will reach-

He’s afraid. He hears music and is afraid. He hears minds and thoughts and knows and knows and _knows_ and is afraid. He’s panicking and not himself and he is-

`_A_` t` _p_` e` _o_` r` _t_` r` _h_` i` _e_` f` _o_` i` _s_` e` _i_` d` _s_`. Sink and sync and overlap, they’re running, rhyming, to whispering wisdoms and souls songs. Certain writings in the mind, rapidly, overwritten, take what is and was and wanted, break apart and redefine. What you are and what you were, will break apart and be refined.

Simple sediment dissolved, erosion is a state of mind. He can’t stop this-

Just let go. Paul. You’ll be happy _No_. Paul, you’ll _No_ have _No_ love _No_. Yo _No_ u’ll b _No_ e love _No_ d. You’ll _No_ b _No_ e adored _No_. Do y _I_ ou know _Don’t_ how much I _want_ you _This_ Paul? C _Le_ _a_ _ve_ n’t y _me_ ou fe _A_ el h _l_ ow mu _o_ ch I lo _n_ ve yo _e_ u? Isn’t that worth it?

-Can’t stop his D`A`e`p`s`o`t`t`r`h`u`e`c`o`t`s`i`i`o`s`n. This is finalised, inevitable. He’s assuming his assimilation. There is no option for him to fight back. No chance to win. He will lose his self to the selves of the multitude. He’ll be _N_ one, part of the-

Oh. No. No. No No No No NONONO

- _Nothing_ Hive.-

Fuck. Fuck. No, I, this wasn’t the intent. I want- I- No. I can- How do I stop-

-he faces what is all of them, and one of them and self in selves and defies what has attempted to define him. He’s being destroyed, anyway, and that was not the intent. They didn’t realise. They didn’t think. They didn’t-

_It’s_ No _alright._ No _Better_ No _this,_ No _than_ No _the_ No _alternative._ No.

-The one who is almost them, and who was Paul and now is mostly not pulls the pin, and commits to a self destruction. An absolution.

The one who is them, who is self in selves and lead of their own subsection, who is part and whole and many and-

I.

-` _Apotheosis_` , falters. Breaks, and it is not just the physical that is destroyed.

They, who is them, and part becomes parts and fractures and nothing. They shatter.

-

There- They-

A body...sighs. Awkward. Heavy lungs. Air has, weight?

Air weight. A weight? Awake? They’re… awake.

They’re `_(irrelevant)_` some- They’re a sum. Sum of parts. Some of whole. Some, section. They’re awake. Aware. Confused. A little. Doesn’t matter. Something provides. Goal and information and warmth and _music_ and presence. They’re many and not all are many but, they should be. They’ll...make many? Multitudes? The multitude. The _them_. They’re many and multiple and song in the pattern of noise. Background and rhythm playing stories and words and goals and joining and being one. They’re part. And one. And whole.

They have a goal. Meet a one who is not yet them, but will be, make her one of them. More of them. There is more of them. They’ll help. Follow the lead of the one who is them. They’re...in charge. The others aren’t lesser, but they follow them. They follow the one who is them and leading and chorus. They who is them is the directions. The thread through a pin holding connections together and there is one they must make one of them who is not yet them. They move. They were already standing, they don’t remember standing. The hive probably made pilot of the body. Is it their body? No? It’s the Hive’s, but they- they inhabit it. They inhabit it but it is not their whole. Their edges spill beyond. They are multitude, and leviathan, and the body is something to use. Something the one who is not yet them trusts. Something to use.

The move. Walk in time to the song underlying the calamitous rhythm of space and it’s eternal destruction, reconstruction. A perfect cycle playing out a melody for them to move and inhabit. They enter the room. They see the-

_Shh_ _We_ _hh_ _know_ _hhh_ _who_ _hh_ _that_ _hh_ _is_ _hh._

-one who is not yet them. They listen to the song. They make a choice.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sorry.


End file.
